Tactile Obsessions
by ScintillatingTart
Summary: The sense of touch is perhaps the most important of them all.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Downton Abbey. That's all.

Dedicated to my Squishy, my other Squishy, and the third Squishy. If you don't know which Squishy you are, you're clearly not my Squishy.

Tactile Obsessions  
by ScintillatingTart  
September 2015

I: Silver

The silver gleamed in the harsh electric lights. He missed the days of candlelight, when the sins of the day were diminished as he polished the silver well into the evening. The electricity made for a startling contrast: he could have light whenever he wished it, and it more often than not affected everything else that he did when he took advantage. He could stay up later, get more done. He could rise in the middle of the night if he could not sleep and begin his notes for the day.

As it was, he caught himself studying a different type of silver more often now. In the late night, before they retired for the evening, he would stare at the threads of silver that wound their way through Mrs. Hughes's hair. He knew very well that he had aged, that his hair was far more grey than black now, but he found himself wishing that age would leave her untouched. That she would always be the lovely woman she had been when she had first come to Downton. But he was not the same man, now was he?

She stood up and stretched, fighting back a yawn. "I should turn in," Mrs. Hughes murmured. "Tomorrow will be a hard day. It makes no sense to stay up till all hours."

His fingers fairly itched to wind their way into her hair, loosening her hairpins, tangling with her lovely hair; the silver strands called to him in a way he could not heed. He wanted so many things: to touch her, to kiss her, to love her in the way a husband was meant to love his wife. But he would not, could not, jeopardize her position, her affections, for something so trivial as his errant heart.

"Mr. Carson, are you quite all right?"

He flexed his hand, his fingers making a fist, then releasing. He took a deep breath, then released it, giving up his heart just a little bit more as he did. "I am fine," he assured her softly. "Please rest easily, Mrs. Hughes: we do have a big day tomorrow."

She eyed him with no small amount of concern, a frown gracing her lips. Suddenly, the silver in her hair became more pronounced, a warning of a type; stay away from her, for you will only age her even faster. Do not touch her, do not breathe on her. Do not sully her.

By the time he realized she was only a hair's breadth away from him, he had convinced himself that he would survive without her. It was a lie, of course, but one he must believe. He would survive without the touch of her, he would survive another broken heart – if he ever admitted that he had a heart.

"Mr. Carson, you don't look at all well –"

"I am well," he grunted. "Merely tired, Mrs. Hughes."

She smiled sadly. "Rest well, then," she said softly.

He waited until he knew she was away to bed before he opened the silver repository. If he could not have one type of silver, then he must make do with the other.

He dreamed of her hair, unbound and cascading around them as she rode him, the soft tendrils brushing against his chest as he thrust into her, whispering her name, listening to her whimpers and moans of pleasure. He dreamt of silver and of a love he could never realize.


	2. Chapter 2

II: Silk

She had always been endlessly practical, her only vices being the stately coats she acquired as a mark of her position and her good standing. But as the times changed, she found herself aching to change with them. She wanted a breath of fresh air, something different.

It was impractical in the extreme. Her cotton nightdresses were all she needed, really. But she had found herself waiting for Lady Grantham to finish her fitting and had spent entirely too much time lingering before a simple ivory nightgown made of silk. Her fingers had traced the lines of draping fabric, so soft and gentle against her callouses, and she had wondered… she had wondered what he would think.

She was far too old to let her mind wander like that, but she had wanted, nay longed, for him for so long that it was as if despair was to be her constant companion. Of course he did not care for her in the same manner, he did not lay abed at night and long for the touch of another person, intimate and warm against their skin. He barely seemed human most days.

She bit her lip and tried not to frown. If she purchased the frivolous nightgown, it would eat into what money she had managed to save for herself. Was it worth the heartache and pain just to have something so lovely that no one but she would appreciate? She was a spinster, her title of 'Mrs.' merely a formality that gave her distinction and respect as the female head of household. She was nothing and no one in the scheme of things; certainly Charles Carson had no opinion one way or the other as far as she was concerned.

So she made a rash decision and purchased the nightgown and matching penoir. If she must be alone and miserable, at least she had something nice to hold onto.

It hung in her wardrobe, mocking her, for days, weeks, months… Every so often, she would touch the fabric and close her eyes, going off to that little tiny place in her heart where she allowed feelings so much deeper than she could express. Going off to that place where she indulged her heart to ache for him, to burn for him.

One night, she was brave enough to wear the nightgown in the frigid attics, watching gooseflesh rise on her skin, making her shiver. He had been masterful, commanding, and it had taken her breath away; she had walked away from their nighttime sherry, her body humming, tingling, a clear knowledge that she wanted him in such a primal way that she would scare him off forever coloring her thoughts.

The silk glided across her skin, her nipples straining against the fabric. She felt both freer and more confined than she ever had before. The hem of the gown rose up her legs, making her body sing that much more; she stifled a moan.

She had always been told not to touch herself; that no man would ever want her if she sullied herself by doing what they were meant to do. But she knew that no man wanted her that way now, so she touched herself in ways that were intimate and beautiful. She shook with the intensity of her pleasure as her heart raced, his name upon her lips as she toppled over the precipice.

And she wept.

She wept for the things she had never had, would never have. She wept for the feeling of silk against her skin and the longing so deeply ensconced in her heart.

But mostly, she wept because it should have been him touching her with fingertips soft as the silk against her skin.


	3. Chapter 3

III: Crystal

The jagged edges of a crystal goblet could chip, could wear away and scratch at the very heart. Certainly, they were a thing of beauty, intricate designs carved into them to catch the light, to accentuate the wine within them. Her eyes were like that, he marveled as he carefully ran his fingers over a goblet, looking for any defects. Over the years, he had collected a small handful of cast offs from the Granthams, each piece somehow tainted by a chip or a crack or something that rendered it less than usable for the family.

Each tiny flaw became more important than the last, a justification for keeping something so very fine. Something he could never afford, could never offer her of his own accord.

She deserved finery, a life less difficult than the one they led. She deserved to allow the sparkle in her eyes to come out more, to grace the world with her gentle affections and her shrewd comments tainted with mischief.

If he had the courage, ever, to tell her, to whisper such words of devotion and care to her – and whisper, he would, for he did not know if he would find his voice at all – he would give her the crystal outright. It was hers far more than it was his, if he must be honest.

He winced as the pad of his thumb caught on the rough edge that Lady Edith had complained about ruining her gloves upon. The slice in his finger was neat, not very deep, but deep enough to sting and well up with blood. It could be fixed; he would see to it, but it would never be up to the family's standards again.

He gently sucked on his thumb, willing the blood to stop as he lifted the goblet toward the light, watching the play of prismatic light bounce from one facet to another. He felt a keen longing in his heart to see the laughing dance of light in Mrs. Hughes's eyes again, for she had been anything but kind and loving the last few weeks. Their nightly chats had been cut off abruptly and she had avoided him whenever possible.

Of course, it was his very own fault. He had been a fool and now he would pay for it in hues of pain. He did not like it when they did not agree, and his words had been cold, cutting through the night like ice. He knew, now, upon hours of reflection, that he had been in the wrong… but he could not swallow his pride enough to apologize.

There was a quick knock on the door, then it was flung open and the object of his affection came through, carrying a teapot clutched in her small hands. "It's cracked," she said with far less enthusiasm than strictly necessary. "It's another relic for your pile of rubbish."

"Mrs. Hughes –"

She raised her gaze to his, steady, unwavering. "Mr. Carson, I –"

He opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a crystal vase. "This has always reminded me of you," he commented lightly, though a sad darkness reigned in his heart. "It was from the collection of the second Earl, but it has a chip near the edge that Lady Violet cut herself upon, so it was given to me. And now I give it to you." He wanted to follow her to her room, to see what flowers she would put into the crystal vase, to see how the light flashed in her eyes as she beheld such joy… And how many hours had he run his fingertips over the facets of the vase, willing himself to show restraint, to not cut himself on the jagged edges, to not give himself entirely to his desires and his wants.

"Is this meant to be an apology?" she inquired, her voice low and hesitant.

"It is meant to be a gesture of peace," he said.

She took the vase and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing with barely held back suspicion, but she did not voice her concerns. "For that, Mr. Carson, I thank you," she murmured. "It is lovely, though."

His heart was thundering a broken, terrifying tattoo in his chest as he watched her running her fingers gently over the cut crystal. He wondered how she would touch him, if it would be as reverently as she handled the priceless gift she'd just been given, or if she would show the signs of fire that sparkled in her eyes like the light reflecting and refracting off the edges of the prisms.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself not to become lost to her. But the battle had already been lost as the delight lit up her eyes and made them sparkle.


	4. Chapter 4

IV: Linen

She smoothed the wrinkles from the sheets after she tucked them. With many of the staff ill with influenza picked up in Ripon, she and Mr. Carson had been at loose ends trying to pick up the slack and ensure that everything was in tip-top shape. It had been years since she'd had the pleasure of making anyone's bed but her own, but she still remembered the days of being able to bounce a shilling off the tightness of her tucks. It had been a source of pride in her younger years, but now she was not so prideful, nor nearly as mindful.

She kept things in order, but they were never quite so good as they might be. The standards were maintained, but only in so much as they must be. With fewer and fewer people to work, only the standards could be achieved.

Standards. The very word reminded her of Mr. Carson and his unfailing attitude of rigid adherence to the rules and nothing but the rules. Just once, one time, she wished and hoped that he could relax his bloody standards and see what was right in front of him.

She stood back from the bed, aside from her hand trailing over the sheet, her palm flat against the linen, begging, pleading, for a touch that could never be given. Her heart pounded, her body and mind conspiring to betray her as she imagined him coming into the room – she would have given anything to him if only he would ask her for it. Surely, he knew, surely, he would understand a woman's need as he would his own. But did he ignore his own needs as much as she did hers?

His kiss would be gentle but passionate, and it would make her tremble with want. She knew enough of love to know that he could merely take what he wanted – the idea thrilled her: Charles Carson dark and needy and wanting more than she could ever give him – but he would not. He would be respectful, passionate, each touch baring her soul a bit more. She imagined his weight upon her, pressing her down into the mattress, the sheets of finest linen tangling between them as they joined at last.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, the blood coursing through her body making her lightheaded and giddy as she fought to stay in control of herself, her emotions, the everything – but she could not stop the deep-seated climax from overtaking her as she thought about them defiling the bed before her. Her hands were shaking, her cheeks flushed, as she came abruptly back to herself and began guiltily to add the blanket and duvet back to the bed.

Nothing good would ever come of wanting and wishing or reaching for the stars when they were so far out of reach.


	5. Chapter 5

V: Water

The ocean was chilly and the sand tickled the bottoms of her feet, bringing a smile to her lips as she stood there like an old fool, holding Mr. Carson's hand. Oh yes, she was very much aware that with all eyes on them, their colleagues gawking at them from further up shore, that their positions were untenable, but she could not hold back the shining thrill of pleasure that crept down her back and settled in the secret places that only she knew.

That he had taken her hand at all, let alone continued to hold it after they had walked out into the surf, was still astounding, frightening, full of promises that she knew she would never be able to collect upon. But for a brief, shining time, he was hers and she was always his.

She flexed her fingers, releasing her hold, then tightening it again, making him look over at her with a small smile on his lips. She had never seen such an expression on his face, and it made a girlish heat suffuse upon her cheeks. "Mr. Carson, I think –"

"Do not break the magic now," he scolded softly.

So she bit her tongue and held back every doubt, every quiet word of love, devotion, lust… They would continue on just as they always had.

It made her feel ill. Or maybe that was so much sunshine.

* * *

As they stood in the shallows, holding hands, he began to realize that there was no earthly way he could let her go and just be butler to her housekeeper anymore. But she could not possibly feel the same way, could she? The way she shied away from him most days, allowing him to take control of the house and the running of things bespoke of a woman far more timid than his dearest Mrs. Hughes.

Might she be running from him?

But if she were, why now were they ankle deep in the ocean, holding hands like a couple of old ducks? He was so confused – he wanted her even now more desperately before, like a craving for things finer than he was allowed to keep. Once he had grasped her hand, he had been lost entirely.

He did not want to press her, nor pressure her, nor pain her. He wanted to be the only man allowed to hold her hand; he wanted to hold so much more than her hand.

But for the moment, all they had were the lapping waves, the smell of the ocean, gentle smiles, and their hands clasped tightly together.

He knew he would dream of her hands on him.

He knew he would drown in thoughts of her.

He was drowning in want of her.


	6. Chapter 6

VI: Jagged Edges

She couldn't believe the nerve of him; so smug and self-superior, thinking that he was the only one possibly in the right. There was no right and certainly no wrong in the situation, only a wish to provide a beacon of hope to the village, and to what end? So Mr. Carson could strut around like a vainglorious peacock, pretending to listen when all the while, he had his own best interests at heart?

And how dare he? How dare he insinuate that she was any less important than he was by belittling her opinion! All because she didn't sit on his blessed committee and worship the ground he walked upon and had the nerve to speak her mind.

Her hands were shaking as she picked up the broken teacup that had slipped through her fingers and landed on the floor; a fitting end to a trying afternoon. Soon the dressing gong would sound and she would be able to escape his ever-present presence for at least a little while whilst the Crawleys took their dinner. God knew she didn't want to be anywhere near him right now – she might throw another teacup at him.

She winced and cried out lowly when her thumb caught the sharp edge of the crockery, slicing straight through her flesh like his words had done to her heart merely an hour before. If she needed a sign, any sign at all, that he was uncaring, unfeeling, unhuman, that was as large a set of letters as he could have painted for her.

She wished the words were illegible.

She wished that she didn't feel so much, so deeply, for him. She wished she could turn off her affections and hide behind the stern façade of Mrs. Hughes again, but the cat was so far out of the bag that it had gone and had kittens.

She could no more turn it off than she could cease to breathe, and for a brief moment, she hated him for it. For making her fall in love. For forcing her heart to live outside of her body in the hands of a man who could never appreciate her sacrifice.

Another shard of porcelain ripped at her exposed flesh and she bit her lip, forcing back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She didn't want to cry merely because he had slighted her; no, it was so much deeper than that.

She wanted to cry because she had lost him entirely, though he had never been hers to lose.


	7. Chapter 7

VII: Needle

She was still cross with him; he really had no idea what was going through her mind, though, because she was not speaking to him in any capacity beyond the barest minimum of what their jobs entailed. Their evening chats had ceased and she did not even spare him a glance.

All because of a stupid, petty disagreement over the bloody war memorial.

Charles couldn't believe he was allowing such a thing – such a transient thing – to come between them to the extent that it had already done. He could not fathom why he had ever thought that going toe to toe with Elsie Hughes was a good idea.

Especially now that he had a sock in one hand and a darning needle in the other. He frowned andwondered when he had become so complacent that he'd taken for granted that she would do his mending for him. Come to speak of it, when had his eyes gone so poorly that he could not even thread the needle? He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose, losing what patience with himself he had left. He had become a sad man, clutching a sad needle and some thread that he could not even use. Clearly, he had no use outside a butler's duty now. Once, he had been a valet, and a proud man. Now, he was an anathema, outside the system and at once part of it.

He closed his eyes and sighed, realizing with the sudden clarity of a man who happened on an oasis in the desert that he would drown as soon as he drank that he had become complacent and had taken her for granted all of this time because he needed a constant in his life. He needed something to keep him grounded, to keep him sane. She was his anchor in the storm, the gentle – and sometimes tempestuous – tide that was as dependable as the sun rising and setting.

He thought briefly of what it would be like to retire with her to a small cottage on the grounds of the estate; they would be happy, he hoped. But it was merely a dream; he had mucked up everything by putting his foot in it, but his pride dictated that he could not retract the insistence on the garden now.

His fingers moved of their own accord, muscle memory kicking in. Slowly, the hole in his sock was mended; his stitches were clumsy, a harkening back to a time when his pride was in his execution of the job, not the execution of the details of the job. It was a fine line of distinction, and he could straddle it no longer.

He winced and cried out, the needle stabbing into the thickened skin of his first knuckle, drawing blood. It smarted, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that Mrs. Hughes was just like that needle – stabbing ineffectually at his heart until finally, he admitted that she had pierced it.

He frowned down at his mending and covered his eyes with his hand in shame.


	8. Chapter 8

I've been having some issues writing as of late due to personal reasons. Please accept this peace offering.

VIII: Breast

It had hard edges, and it made her corset uncomfortable. She didn't know how long she'd been ignoring it, playing it off as just a bruise or something that would go away. The soft flesh of her breast, wrinkled and beginning to sag, had suddenly been marred by an invader, an angry, painful feeling that did not, would not go away.

And now that she had felt it for herself, the hard lump with its edges and planes that could not be ignored on the underside of her left breast, with gentle fingertips used to probing other people's wounds and hurts – hardly ever her own – she felt sick to her stomach.

Elsie's life flashed before her eyes in a fit of panic; lumps begat cancer, she knew well from her mother and her grandmother before her. Cancer was a word that struck fear into the heart of anyone with a heart that was still beating: it was a certain death, sentenced without justice or hope to men, women, and children alike. There was no cure and any treatments created more pain than they helped.

She had regrets in her life; she had never given herself the chance to voice them aloud. She had never allowed herself to indulge in self-pity. But all of her regrets rushed at her in a sudden wave, threatening to drown her in the wave of self-pity and self-loathing as she touched her breast. How could she keep on? How could she hide behind a smile and kind words now when she did not know if she was one of the walking dead?

Cancer.

The very word was invasive and painful.

And more terrifying than anything else she'd ever encountered.

Aside from falling in love, that was. And how could she ever bear to tell him the worst? How could she live with the pity and the sadness in her eyes as she could not fight any longer?

How selfish was she that she was worried about love now?

So very selfish.

She stifled a sob and continued to massage her breast, wishing that the hollow ache would go away.

Her world was on the verge of collapse.

How could force herself to face them in the morning when she could not even face her haunted countenance in the mirror as she stood before it, examining her body in the harsh artificial light? How would she ever be able to face herself again, knowing that her very heartbeat was a traitor?

How indeed.


	9. Chapter 9

IX: Silver, Revisited

It wasn't cancer; his heart soared in his chest, lightening his misery and giving him a feeling of guilty elation that didn't make sense. Maybe it was because he knew that some other poor bugger wasn't as lucky as she was; maybe it was because he had prayed fervently that she would be all right at the cost of others. He had bargained with God and now he would have to reap the consequences. Maybe not immediately, but soon. Soon, God would collect.

His cloth ran over the platter, circles, ever larger, ever smaller, working the polish into every nook and cranny by habit, by rote. It was his penance, then, a moment of debt for his sins, working them away one piece of silver at a time.

He could not stop the words, the melody, from gracing his lips.

 _Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…_

Truer words were never spoken; he had fallen in love with a mistress of the iron, of the cloth, of all things domestic and beautiful and comfortable about a home. He had fallen in love with her smile, her kindness, and the way her eyes glinted in the light as she mended his hems and embroidered his new handkerchiefs to save him a few pennies.

He had bargained with God to spare his gentle queen, and now he could breathe again, could hope that the panic and anxiety that had plagued him in the wake of finding out about the possibility of her illness would go away. He hoped fervently that she would look upon life with new eyes, now, grateful eyes.

He hoped the most selfish part of his prayers would be answered: that she would see him for what he was, standing there, wanting her, needing her, even when it seemed the worst might come to pass.

 _She stole my heart away…_

He knew that God would frown on such selfish behavior, and yet… yet, he had spared her, given her a new lease on life.

And for the small favor, he was grateful beyond measure.

 _Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…_

Perhaps his heart had never quite been his own; perhaps it had always in some small measure been hers rather than his. But he knew that he would have given anything to secure her well-being. Mayhaps, in bargaining selfishly, he already had.

But until the consequences began to flow, he was content to allow life to flow as it would.

He tossed the platter from one hand to the other jovially, then put it away, a smile upon his lips, and a lightened gladness in his soul.


End file.
